When you told me in Venice
What a friend I’d been
I could not reply
my memories possessed your flesh
by every sense but those
most vital to the moment
— taste and touch
How can you go on wounding me and say
What a friend you’ve been
I’ll always think of you
when I think of Venice
How can you go on wounding me for
I shall always think of you (full stop)
and this is what I need to shout
knees trembling skin cold
balls tight as if from shock I
shall always think of you
Venice or Bangkok
Denver Birkenhead Mombasa
Mown hay
new bread
water under the bridge
spilt milk
—clichés last
like Gothic
folk cathedrals
Don’t shake my hand
my hand is shaking
you wear my shirt
that old familiar shirt I gave you
this is all too much to bear
I’m waving to the shirt
(salvaged by self-respect the last straw)
I’m saying nothing I’m so desperate for
you to understand me
Let us meet
you smile at work
in some Service Civile project you and I
and all young comrades of the people
digging drains or building hospitals
your voice
a little quizzical: already injured at my silence
Let is be me so slightly injured:
one such cut instead of this
blocked-in energy
this charge with nowhere it can flow
Ciao! (chop — try here right between the eyes — again)
If I touch your hand with mine
I’d burn you up
Your warm skin warms my cotton skin
I’m waving to the shirt
a feeble semaphore
fingers flagging help help there’s someone dying here
Your smile — passionless and intimate —
bobs down in the watertaxi
Ciao! I call
my voice ridiculously like my own
Good luck!
Relief breaks in your eyes
your smile now mercilessly sweet and
Good hunting! words already trembling with motor’s pulse
Sunshine blazes on the water
my footsteps make no sound
